


Fic: The Long Game

by AlexisJane



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood Drinking, Gore, M/M, bad!Sam, bottom!Dean, dub-con, hurt!Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-17
Updated: 2014-05-17
Packaged: 2018-01-25 11:13:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1646579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlexisJane/pseuds/AlexisJane





	Fic: The Long Game

**Title -** The Long Game  
 **Pairing -** Sam/Dean  
 **Rating -** NC-17  
 **Disclaimer -** These are my words but all my base are belong to Kripke, Sera, Ben or whoever so don't sue me. It's just for fun.  
 **Word count -** 2500  
 **Warnings -** gore, dub-con, bottom!Dean, bad!Sam, blood drinking, hurt!Dean, spoilers up to current S9. This is a case fic and has a very brief description of a dead child.

 **A/N** \- My springfling for [](http://thursdaysisters.livejournal.com/profile)[**thursdaysisters**](http://thursdaysisters.livejournal.com/). Her prompt was 'abandoned hospital', so it just had to be this!

  
~•~  
  
“Stop.”

The weight on his chest, on his throat crushes the air out of him, “Please stop.”

But he keeps trying.

“Please don’t do this.”

He has to at least try, even though he knows it’s too late.

“Please. Sammy…”

The sound of his name jars Sam and he releases the clamp of his lips from around the wound on Dean’s thigh but not the psychic one pinning Dean flat against the wall, crushing the life out of him.

Slowly, he raises his head and looks Dean in the eye, like he’s trying to remember exactly who he’s looking at.

Then, his head tilts and he smiles.

Dean isn’t sure what’s worse; his sticky red blood staining Sam’s mouth and lips, smearing into a cruel smile over one cheek, gouts clotting his chin; Sam’s beautiful brown eyes, gone, only white in their place; or that the more Sam sucks the blood from him, pulling it out like a man starved, the hotter the Mark burns, the deeper he feels it and the realization that this...this was always going to happen becoming crystal clear in his mind.

~•~

The message had sounded genuine enough. But in hindsight, Garth would never have been so…so formal about the whole thing. There was no verbal hugging or new agey crap and no mention of Bess. That should have been red flag right there. But it hadn’t even occurred to him. All he heard was ‘abandoned hospital’, ‘possible possession’, ‘twelve deaths’ and ‘the last guy killed his kids, Dean. His kids.’

Even the fact that it was in Kansas City didn’t seem to faze him. For four years, he had studiously avoided that part of Missouri, driving for hours out of his way so he didn’t have to even glimpse it. Even though Lucifer was gone, there was still something about the memory of that conversation, the rose garden…the devil wearing his brother. It hadn’t even really happened but still, Jackson County wasn’t near the top of his places to visit. But there was something about this case.

“So, now you _want_ to go on a case?” Sam leant in Dean’s doorway, arms crossed over his chest, watching Dean punching shirts into his duffel. “I thought finding Abaddon was more important than casework.”

Dean sighed and bit the inside of his mouth. He needed a drink. Lately it was getting harder not to bite Sam’s head off every five minutes. He felt irritable and tired all the time. He didn’t need the booze to stop him from snapping though. He needed it to kill the feeling clawing at the very marrow of him; that he’d bitten off more than he could chew, that the ‘Great Burden’ might be one burden too many to carry this time and as much as the Mark itched and picked at him, his empty right hand was worse. He needed to find Abaddon because he needed the Blade back in it.  
Now. Right now. He thought he might go insane without it.

So he just sighed and turned to his brother and shrugged, “We’re getting nowhere. I stared at a page for two hours this morning before I realized…I read it already! A week ago! My brain is fried. You look like shit. We need to get out of here, get some fresh air, kill a bad guy. Maybe it’ll shake something loose.”

“And you want to drive to Missouri to do that?”

“Jesus, Sam! It’s only four hours away!” Dean pulled his cell out of his back pocket and threw it hard. Sam caught it, slightly fumbling, as it hit his chest “Just listen to the damn message and then tell me you don’t think we should go!”

Ten minutes later, Sam climbed into the passenger seat of the Impala and handed Dean back his phone. As Dean turned the ignition and the engine roared into life, Sam slid down the seat and lay his head back to sleep, as if nothing was out of the ordinary.

The case was just a case. The same as any of the hundreds of other cases they had worked in their lives. Dean glanced at his suit jacket in the mirror and thought about finding a drycleaner while they were in town, as he looped one hand over the other, wrapping Sam’s tie into the knot he liked around his own neck, pulling it off his head and handing it to him, when Sam finally made it out of the bathroom.

Asking awkward questions of bewildered family members, shell shocked and grief stricken, not knowing anything other than “He seemed fine. He was fine. Fine one minute but then…”

Equally perplexed law enforcement, in so far over their heads, the sighs of relief damn near blew the fake FBI badges from the brothers’ hands.

Then the mortuary.

They’d seen bad. They’d done worse. But when the coroner, unable to look down, even his sallow complexion blanching; when he had pulled the sheet away, Dean felt his stomach turn over and he tried not to think of Ben.

The report said it was a six year old boy. The coroner had done his best but what was on the slab looked like a butchers counter. Dean just stared at the man’s pleading eyes when he said, “The other…boy…the other body is worse. Do you really want to see him too?”

Sam thankfully broke the silence with “No. No thank you. We got what we need”

When they got back to the motel, Sam went straight into the bathroom but even the sound of the shower running loud into empty space couldn’t drown out the sound of Sam’s sobbing.

Dean led in bed that night, _If you can’t save him…_ and thought about the boy, the pieces of him, how it looked, the familiarity of it. How it quite easily could have been him in another time, another place, ripped to pieces…or doing the ripping, and how they quite clearly did not have what they needed.

There was no sulphur, no signs that it was a siren or a shifter or any other goddamn thing. People walked into an empty building, people walked out. Not all of them ended up butchering a loved one and of the ones that did, there was no pattern, nothing at all to link them. Nothing. So tomorrow they would go. Dean would drive and Sam would be right there and they would go to a place that any sane person would stay the hell away from.

Dean lay awake for a long time. The case bothered him some, the Mark a little more but the reason he couldn’t seem to close his eyes was lying in his own bed a few feet away. And he wasn’t sleeping either.

He listened to Sam breathing, like he used to when they were boys, Sam pretending to be asleep, not wanting Dean to think he was just lying there, fretting about Dad being out on a hunt but Dean knowing exactly that.

As time went on that happened less and less. Partly because Sam worried less and the pair of them hunted more, and partly because if one or the other sensed for a moment that they weren’t the only ones not sleeping, then they would crawl right into the other bed. And not just into the bed but into the other’s arms and mouth and body.

But not now. Not since Purgatory. So Dean just listened to Sam’s breaths, matching his own to them, his body falling into line with Sam’s like it always had, the comfort of it hypnotizing him unconscious.

They had been prepared for a lot of things but not getting ambushed by a horde of knife wielding demons at the hospital gates.

“Jesus, fuck, where did they all come from?” Dean hissed through his teeth as Sam half dragged him down the corridor. One of the bastards had an impressively long reach and managed to slash the top of Dean’s thigh before Sam had stabbed him in the throat with his angel blade. They had agreed before leaving the motel that entering the hospital was just too risky so they wouldn’t go in until they’d had a thorough recon. But out-numbered and bleeding out, Dean hobbled straight for the nearest entrance, Sam right behind him, cutting and slashing.

“I’ve no idea. Right now I’m more worried about where they all went!”

Sam had a point. He dragged Dean, who had both hands clamped down over the wound in his leg stemming the blood flow, by the waist up some stairs to the second floor. Higher ground made sense, but the fact that no-one was following them did not.

“What the hell are they doing?” Dean winced as Sam propped him gently against the wall.

Sam peered briefly out the window and shook his head, returning to barricade the door, “They’re just standing there. It looks like they’re waiting.”

Dean looked around what was once probably an examination room, one large window not boarded up like the rest, tattered screens on the floor, a lone examination table in the center of the room. He tried moving one red hand away from his leg and was thankful that the bleeding was more an ooze than a torrent. He hopped to a set of metal drawers and started pulling out the contents looking for something to fix his leg. There was a suture kit and he breathed a sigh of relief “Oh thank god. Sam, come sew me up before whatever they’re waiting for arrives…Sam?”

Sam just stood stock still in the center of the room, his back to Dean, shoulders hunched and tense.

“Sam! Come on!”

Sam turned slowly, his face wracked with confusion but then seemed to shake it away, “Yes? God. Yes, Dean I’m sorry, I don’t…Have we been here before?”

Dean froze “What?”

Sam shook his head “Nothing…I just…it’s nothing. Let me look at that.”

There had been so many things that Dean should have spotted, could have warned him but when Sam walked towards him, licking his lips, his eyes trained hungrily on the blood running down Dean’s leg, it was far, far too late.

~•~

Sam smiles up at him and lets his eyes roll back to brown, his pupils so blown they look black.

Dean shudders as Sam’s hands run up his naked thighs, mostly because he likes it, likes the feel of Sam’s hand slick in his blood and he’s disgusted with himself. As Sam’s palm passes over his wound it burns white hot for a moment as the ragged edges knit together. His hands keep moving up to grasp Dean’s hips, bloody fingernails scratching into his flesh.

His breath hitches as Sam wipes his red mouth over Dean’s partially full cock, making it harden further under his breath. Dean struggles for a moment against the psychic binding but when Sam’s lips engulf him and suck down to the base of his cock, he cries out and the idea that he should stop this, should stop Sam, flies out of his mind.

As Sam’s head bobs back and forth, slicking him messy with blood-tinted spit, Dean knows there is something he should be remembering. Something his father told him _if you can’t save him…_ He just can’t quite put his finger on it.

And then Sam’s mouth is on his, Sam’s tongue all bitter copper and pre-come licking inside him, the psychic hold gone and just Sam, Sam’s hands bunched in his jacket, dragging him across the room, throwing him back down across the table, lifting his naked legs and ass with one hand, unbuckling his belt with the other.

There’s no finesse as Sam grunts his way into Dean, each inadequately wet thrust gaining an inch of entry into Dean and a scream of pleasurepain out. Dean’s head falls back, hanging over the edge of the table, panting, keening, _if you can’t save him…_ and that’s when he sees it. Even upside down, even without the Croatoan devastation, even with Sam fucking him hard and making his body rock and sing, through the window he can see it. The rose garden. _If you can’t save him…_

“Dean, Dean, oh god, I knew it, I know it. Whatever we did, we would always end up…”

“Here!” Dean lifts his head as he says it, his whole upper body spasming, as his orgasm rips through him. Sam throws his head back and comes hard, gripping Dean’s forearms, making the Mark spark and glow with his touch.

~•~

“Did you get it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Took you long enough.”

“It was…well, just finding one in that size...”

Crowley scowled and beckoned to the demon that was standing just out of reach, like it would make a difference. The demon held out the garment bag and Crowley took it, unzipping the top and looking inside. He nodded approvingly at the white suit inside and chuckled to himself as he zipped it back up.

The demon shuffled in place and ventured “I’m still not sure why…”

Crowley sighed and looked up at the towering building in front of him and the gathering clouds above it. “Why we needed the suit? Because when the King is done getting messy with his brother he’s going to need a change of clothes and this…” he raised his arm with the suit draped over it, “…well this just amuses me.”

A cry rang out from the window above and Crowley smiled “Remind me to send a gift basket to whoever it was that managed to stick the Consort.”

“Actually…” Crowley turned to the cowering demon that had spoken and raised his eyebrows but the demon went on, “…actually, I was wondering why…why at all? If the Winchester is going to be King of Hell…”

Crowley laughed, long and loud. Then, shaking his head said, “You moron. Sam Winchester isn’t King of Hell, He’s King of All, you idiot! You think I’ve worked this long, this hard, protected them, put up with their bitching, been made half human, to have anything less? How complicated it’s been? Getting the Mark on Dean, making him not quite human, getting grace into Sam? No. Metatron gets Heaven for his contribution. I get Hell and Sam gets…” Another cry from the window, makes his head turn upwards along with the corners of his mouth, “…well, Sam’s getting it right now…and for all eternity.”

He shooed the demon away with his hand, then let the fingers slip inside his overcoat, trailing over the Blade secure in his pocket, then they ran down to cup the bulge in his trousers. He always liked this part. Not the Winchesters fucking, he’d seen that enough to be bored by it now. No. It was the plan coming together that got him. The long game. And this one was pretty long, even for him. But ultimately…Crowley smiled and sighed,

“I win. So, I win.”


End file.
